Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  Whispers informed him that Michelle Hanley-Bogart made no false claims to fame. She’d been to bed with all the greats, and was never proved wrong. Once in Mikki’s bed and there was no limit.

  Buzz wanted a crack, but since she’d joined the entourage in Philadelphia she had eyes only for Kris.

  Pretty as she was, infamous as she was, he found himself holding back. On this – their second tour of America – he did not have jet-lag, he had groupie-lag.

  Mikki waited patiently, endearing herself to the rest of the group and the roadies by picking out the best girls, the best restaurants, and the best places to have fun in as they trekked through city after city. Mikki would have made a sensational tour manager – she knew it all.

  Buzz was insulted she hadn’t chosen him. She’d share a joint, but nothing else. ‘I’m waiting for Kris,’ she’d say simply, when pressed. It had become the tour joke. When was Kris going to get a leg over?

  He’d promised her it would happen in Chicago. Now he felt like a reluctant bridegroom.

  Wot the fuck you doin’ in there?’ demanded Rasta.

  ‘A tribal marriage dance,’ Kris replied dourly, and re-entered the real world.

  The party was going strong. The Temptations blasted forth from the stereo. Wine, beer and champagne flowed. There were plenty of couples in advanced stages of necking, and joints being passed back and forth like dime store candy. Buzz seemed to be buried beneath two busty blondes. Flower was safely stashed in London, but even if she were present she wouldn’t object, as group sex was her hobby.

  Mikki stood serenely next to the stereo, wearing a turquoise mini-dress with patterned stockings and black patent-leather pumps. Her straight blonde hair was parted in the middle and held back with a neat barrette. The word ‘virgin’ came to mind. Mikki looked like she’d never done it in her life.

  Kris grinned. He couldn’t help liking her. She had a terrific personality, always up, always fun. If she hadn’t slept with a virtual Who’s Who of the rock world, he could quite fancy a steady relationship.

  ‘Hello – star,’ she said, her knowing voice arguing with her pretty image.

  Why didn’t he just close his eyes and think of England? Not such a great hardship.

  Rafealla

  1981

  Escape had been on Rafealla’s mind for many months. The only reason she’d stayed around so long was because of Jon Jon, now a robust four-year-old. Life was a series of dangerous skirmishes. She had to be on her guard at all times, ready to deflect Eddie’s vicious temper tantrums and bouts of cruelty. She kept an old Turkish dagger in its tooled leather case under the bed – one of the few souvenirs she had of her father. Once, she had taken it out and threatened him. The beatings had to stop. It seemed a suitable way to warn him.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare use that thing,’ he’d jeered.

  ‘Just try me,’ she’d said grimly, her eyes explosive pinpoints of trouble.

  The beatings stopped. The verbal abuse, and the gambling, did not.

  Lady Elizabetta obviously knew what was going on – but said nothing. They had moved from her apartment into a Chelsea service flat, and she visited every few weeks to see her grandchild and criticize. Anna, Rafealla’s own mother, suspected all was not well, but Rafealla refused to break and tell the truth. She had too much pride. After all, the marriage had been her idea, and to admit defeat was humiliating – even to her own family.

  Odile guessed. ‘Eddie’s not perfect,’ Rafealla admitted reluctantly. ‘We’re working things out.’

  The truth was that Eddie Mafair was a sadistic, gambling drunk, and Rafealla had finally faced up to the fact that things were never going to change. She had given him over four years of her life. It was enough.

  Leaving him was going to be no simple task. He depended on Lord Egerton’s money to support his gambling habit. And even though he had never availed himself of the job Lord Egerton had offered him, it suited him to know the opportunity was always available.

  No, Eddie would not take kindly to her departure. He professed to love his son, although she had never seen any proof of it. He ignored Jon Jon, bitterly complaining when the child made too much noise or messed up the apartment.

  Rafealla didn’t mind. He’s not your son, she thought triumphantly. What a lucky twist of fate that was.

  Their sex life was almost non-existent. It had been that from the beginning. When they did sleep together, it was merely a physical release – and as far as Rafealla was concerned, not a very satisfactory one. At first she had tried to talk to him, attempted to make some sense out of their relationship.

  ‘It’s what you wanted,’ was all he would say. ‘You forced it on both of us, so don’t whine – because it’s too late.’

  True. But she was older and wiser now. Her life was ahead of her, and four years was enough of a chance to give anyone.

  Odile and Rafealla’s stepbrother, Rupert, shocked everyone with news of a quickie marriage in Rio de Janeiro. Odile phoned with the good tidings.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ Rafealla exclaimed, genuinely thrilled. ‘How come you didn’t tell anyone? Mama will go crazy, and so will your mother. You know how they both love big weddings.’

  ‘Exactly what we wished to avoid’, giggled Odile. ‘I’m sooo happy! We want you to come and visit us, and bring Jon Jon.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Rafealla said quietly, thinking this might be exactly the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Rupert had been living in South America for two years, working on a mammoth engineering project.

  Brazil. On the phone he spoke about it glowingly.

  Brazil.

  It could be the pefect escape.

  * * *

  ‘How long will you be away?’ Eddie asked churlishly.

  Forever. ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘That’s far too much time,’ he said, swigging a third after – dinner brandy.

  ‘It’s a great distance,’ Rafealla replied carefully. ‘I can’t just go there then turn around and come right back.’

  ‘And who’s supposed to look after me while you’re away?’

  ‘You’ll manage.’

  ‘I know I’ll manage,’ he said petulantly. ‘But why should I? That’s what I married you for.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, and did not regret her decision one little bit.

  She packed carefully, taking only her very favourite things. It wouldn’t do to make him suspicious.

  As she was filling the last suitcase he came into the bedroom and stared at her. ‘You’re taking a hell of a lot of stuff for three weeks,’ he said accusingly.

  The fumes of his breath hit her in the face. She almost gagged. In an even voice she said, ‘I’m leaving you, Eddie, I’m never coming back.’

  For one split second he took her seriously, and then he began to laugh. He was quite convinced she couldn’t live without him – he’d told her so on many occasions.

  ‘I couldn’t get rid of you if I tried,’ he said, with immodest confidence. ‘When you tricked me into marrying you it was a life sentence, wasn’t it, sweetheart?’

  You wish. ‘Yes,’ she said dully.

  ‘C’mere.

  Automatically she backed away.

  His tone was threatening. ‘I . . . said . . . come . . . here.’

  ‘Eddie, I’m tired—’

  ‘Oh, it’s “Eddie I’m tired” now, is it? I can remember when you never stopped complaining because we didn’t make love as much as you wanted.’

  ‘It’s just that—’

  ‘It’s just that what, sweetheart?’ He grabbed her around the waist and pressed his lips down hard on hers.

  She wanted to scream. All the times she’d yearned for his attention. All the lonely nights and frustrating encounters that started off hopefully and ended in drunken bouts of cruelty.

  Now he seemed in control. He was not quite drunk enough to cramp his style, and she could feel his erection pressing insistently against her thigh, and his hands creeping un
der her sweater.

  Oh, Eddie, once you were my dream lover . . .

  What happened?

  In spite of herself she began to respond to his practised touch. Her physical needs swept away their cloudy past, and she opened up to pure, unbridled passion as he made love to her like he hadn’t made love to her before.

  With perfect precision he brought them to mutual orgasm, kissing her on the mouth as it happened, murmuring words – unspoken before – of great love and tenderness.

  ‘Eddie . . .’ She gasped his name, filled with confusion and guilt. Could it be that after all this time she had finally touched him? And now they could live happily ever after?

  No . . . Absolutely not. Pure fairy-tale time. But she fell asleep full of doubts, wondering if leaving was the right thing to do.

  In the morning he woke her with gentle kisses and clean breath. He made love to her again, bringing her to new heights of dizzying sensation.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked wonderingly.

  ‘I simply realized how much I’m going to miss you,’ he said, kissing her face. ‘Hurry home, sweetheart.’

  Jon Jon was staying at her mother’s. She had arranged to meet them both at the airport. Her mother knew nothing of her plan to stay in South America, nobody did. It wasn’t too late to change her mind . . .

  Eddie insisted on driving her to the airport. He organized the luggage and porters, then escorted her to the VIP lounge, where he proceeded to play with Jon Jon, making the child scream with delight.

  Anna smiled. She was relieved to witness such a happy family group. Sometimes she wasn’t so sure that all was well with her headstrong daughter’s marriage, but today her doubts were firmly put to rest.

  When their flight was called, Eddie drew Rafealla over to a quiet corner. ‘I never learned to express my positive feelings,’ he said, staring intently into her eyes. ‘However, somehow, with you going away, everything’s fallen into position, and I know I’m going to make it better for you. Trust me, sweetheart. Come home soon. I miss you and little Jon already.’

  By the time she was on the plane, strapped in and ready for take-off, she was a nervous wreck. What was she doing? Running off half-way around the world to escape from what? It seemed too good to be true, but in a miraculously short period of time Eddie honestly appeared to have changed.

  So, the voice of reason told her, go for three weeks and come hack.

  But I want to be with him now, another voice cried.

  Forget it, see what happens, cautioned the sensible voice.

  The large jet taxied down the runway.

  Too late now, kid.

  * * *

  Three hours later they were still on the plane, which never left the runway, due to some kind of technical difficulty. The passengers were hot and impatient, and every half-hour they were promised an imminent, take-off. Jon Jon was restless, flushed with excitement and tired.

  Rafealla summoned a stewardess. ‘Can you tell me exactly what is happening?’ she asked.

  The stewardess shrugged. ‘I wish I could. Every half-hour they inform us it will be another half-hour. We know as much as you.’

  Eventually an official announcement was made. The plane was not going anywhere, and the passengers were offered alternatives. Everyone disembarked.

  Rafealla found a helpful ground clerk, and enquired if she could take the same flight the following day.

  ‘Certainly,’ he said, wishing she would take a flight into his life. This was some great-looking female.

  ‘Keep my luggage and book us on it,’ she said, hurrying for a cab, with Jon Jon running happily beside her, his short little legs doing double time to keep up. After dropping Jon Jon back at her mother’s house – a mere twenty minutes from the airport – she borrowed her stepfather’s Aston Martin, and drove in high spirits to the Chelsea flat she shared with Eddie. By the time she arrived it was early evening and already dark. She’d had all day to think things over and felt good about getting another chance to be with her husband before her vacation. Because that’s what she’d decided it was going to be. A vacation. A break. And in three weeks they would both be ready to start their marriage afresh.

  Placing her key in the lock she heard the muted sounds of Manhattan Transfer – one of her favourite groups. As she entered the apartment the record changed to Lou Reed’s ‘Take a Walk on the Wild Side’.

  Funny, Eddie never played records. He never lit candles either, and the living room was alive with small black votive candles in stylish Art Deco holders.

  She immediately knew he had someone there, and her stomach turned.

  Resolutely she marched towards the bedroom, determined to confront the woman face to face.

  Just get out. What are you pushing it for?

  Why should I?

  Because he isn’t worth it.

  She burst into the bedroom, and felt sick.

  The woman wasn’t a woman. The woman was a man with silky pale hair, a boyish face and a hairless, naked body.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the creature said tartly. ‘Might we have a touch of privacy?’

  Eddie did not say one word.

  Bobby Mondella

  1981

  Bobby Mondella arrived at the wedding of Nichols Kline to Pammy Booser in a metallic gold Mercedes limousine, with tinted, bullet-proof windows, and three personal bodyguards in close attendance.

  Hey – he’d figured it out. When you’re a star – go for it. Live the life. His public expected it – indeed, they loved it. And so did he.

  He wore a black shark-skin suit, with a Russian-style silk shirt, and a long, masculine-cut sable coat thrown casually over his shoulders. Accompanying him was Zella Raven, a six-foot black performance artist with a Playboy centrefold body, and a marine crew-cut. Zella wore thin strips of rubber and thigh-high boots.

  The photographers and television crews went crazy as their feet hit the ground outside the private Pacific Palisades home where the wedding was to take place. They paused – in perfect synch – to allow exactly eight seconds of frantic picture-taking. Then they were on the move, flanked by bodyguards, the crowd of star-watchers cheering hoarsely.

  That’s why Bobby liked taking Zella to public events. She had the routine down pat, never put a foot wrong. She had the right image, and it really steamed up Nova when he was seen out with her. The claws emerged with a vengeance.

  Nova Citroen. The woman had him under her spell. But he was gradually breaking away, and he’d finally decided that if she didn’t want to go for some kind of commitment, it was over. He was a star, for crissakes. A superstar. Not the fledgling, uncertain twenty-seven-year-old she had first come on to. It was about time she realized that.

  Bobby Mondella. Sex symbol. Thirty-one. Rich. Handsome. Powerful.

  Yeah – powerful. Because with great fame came the power to do whatever you damned well pleased. He said ‘Jump’ and people jumped. He told a joke – and everyone broke up. He demanded pizza at four in the morning and there it was. He pointed out a woman – any woman – and she was usually obtainable.

  Hey – hey – hey – he could have anything and anyone he wanted. Except Nova. She might share his bed on occasion, but she belonged to Marcus Citroen, and up until now she had exhibited no signs of moving on.

  Bobby knew it was because as far as she was concerned they both belonged to Marcus. She was married to the man, and he was under contract to him.

  A breakable contract. He had been meeting with Nichols Kline’s lawyers for months trying to work out a way to go. After all, Nichols Hit City were offering him a better deal than he’d ever had with Blue Cadillac. With Blue Cadillac he was the singer they’d discovered and made into something. With Nichols Hit City he had no history – he was a world-famous superstar, and the contract they were tempting him with reflected that.

  ‘There’s no contract can’t be broken,’ said Arnie Torterelli, one of Nichols’s business associates. ‘You want out of Blue Cadillac – you got it. L
eave everything to our lawyers. They’ll spring you. No fuckin’ problem.’

  Now the day was drawing near, and Bobby was ready to fly.

  All he had to do was hope Nova would fly with him.

  * * *

  The turnout for Nichols Kline’s marriage to Pammy Booser was eclectic – a mixed group of guests ranging from bank presidents and captains of industry to rock stars, well-endowed starlets, and representatives of life in the Hollywood fast lane. Neither marital candidate appeared to have any family. Nichols’s best man was a long-time old friend of his from Miami, Carmine Sicily, a stooped, gaunt man in his late fifties, with sinister slit eyes and grey hair. Bobby remembered seeing him in the Chainsaw with Nichols all those years ago. He had the sort of face it wasn’t easy to forget.

  ‘Get your eyes on that dude,’ Zella whispered to Bobby as they watched Nichols and Carmine make the walk to take up their position in front of the Justice of the Peace who was to perform the non-religious marriage ceremony in the garden of Arnie Torterelli’s house. ‘He’s a major Miami drug king. And I mean Mister Big.’

  Bobby nodded, although he didn’t believe her. Zella liked to think she knew everything about everybody. Sometimes she was wrong.

  Looks-wise Zella Raven was sensational. Conversatio-wise she did not grab his attention. In his entire life there had only been two women he’d seriously wanted. Sharleen and now Nova.

  Unfortunately he’d never been more than friends with Sharleen, and although Nova and he were lovers, up until now she remained elusive, running the relationship on her terms.

  No more. The choice would soon be hers.

  Pammy Booser appeared on the arm of Arnie Torterelli. She tottered on stiletto heels, her white lace dress a Fredericks-of-Hollywood dream come true. Behind her trailed a gaggle of over-age girls-about-town – all with their eyes open for the main chance.

  ‘No style,’ muttered Zella. Sometimes she was right on.

  Pammy Booser and Nichols Kline were pronounced man and wife, and the wedding party progressed.